Camping was always such an enjoyable activity. Nighttime was usually the most excitable part of the journey-with the snuggling by the fire, shared kisses beneath the stars, and tranquil snores from the tent. Members of all genders and ages could feasibly agree that this outdoor rendezvous could be very romantic for any couple.
Unfortunatly, as a majority of London needed constant reminding of, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were not a couple. They were friends as well as colleagues and flatmates, and sure, they've been in a fair share of compromisable situations, but that didn't mean in any way that they were together.
Right.
John tugged open the tent door, a blurry of shivers running up his spine. The doctor's normally ripe blonde hair had been tinted a darker shade from the rain, plastering itself onto his forehead. Rubbing his arms in an attempt to warm himself, he couldn't help but glare at Sherlock, whom was sitting contently on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"I can't believe this, Sherlock. We're in the middle of a damned forest, and it's bloody freezing out! Look, I'm shivering!"
Sherlock only raised an eyebrow, looking rather bored by the whole situation. With a histronic sigh, he settled his gaze onto the dampened medic.
"You were the one that couldn't hold your bladder, John,"
This was a mistake. A complete mistake. Lestrade should never, ever, ever, had left John to a tent this small with the world's only consulting detective as well as a sociopath, all for a dumb case. Gritting his teeth, John shook his head, pulling his wet shirt off. After slipping his shoes and socks off as well, the medic undid his belt buckle, deciding it would just be easiest to go to sleep trouser-less. Off came his bottoms, leaving him in a pair of light blue boxers. He hadn't felt self-conscious or ashamed in anyway, seeming as he had served in the military, and become a doctor. To John, the body was natural, exposing himself came with ease.
Unbeknownst to him, John's muscled chest and tanned skin didn't go unnoticed. Sherlock had keep one eye on him, partly out of curiousity, partly out of wonder. He'd never thought anyone particularly beautiful before, but seeing John exposed like this was something to behold.
"Are you going to go to sleep tonight?"
The sound of a slightly annoyed, though mostly chilled John pierced the air. His voice had a minor dopple of stuttering, as if the doctor had been shivering. Sherlock crawled towards him carefully, examaining the way his sleeping bag was tugged over his body tightly.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
Beyond everything, irritation was present in John's tone. As if this was completely normal, Sherlock ignoring John in favour of studying him closely. In a way, it was. Often times the detective would pretend as if he hadn't heard his friend, so he could do something more entertaining. In this case, John was more intriquing than his question.
"That's not healthy,"
With that, John sighed. Why did Sherlock always have to be so vague? He rolled onto his back, idly realizing just how close the detective had come to him. Had the situation been any different, John most likely would've asked him to back off, but not now. Sherlock's paled and sculpted lips were so seemingly close, John couldn't even comprehend his slightly increased heart rate.
"Um, what isn't?"
Leaning in closer, the detective dived down to John's side, curling into the doctor. Gasping in surprise, John froze in uncertainty, finding the warming body heat of Sherlock comforting, in a way. A long arm wrapped over his chest, dragging him in close to a longer body.
"I don't want you to get sick,"
For that night, the two both agreed to sleep snug, their bodies close together. Just for the sake of keeping warm.
Not because, you know, they both found the heat of each other reassuring and quite possibly one of the most pleasant feelings in the world.
It had absolutely nothing to do with that.